


Even As Also I Am Known

by Khentkawes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: 2x06 Through a Glass Darkly, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Porthos, Hurt/Comfort, bickering musketeers, tending injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:26:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khentkawes/pseuds/Khentkawes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Must the two of you compete for who will deny their injuries the longest?” Athos asked drily. He didn’t wait for them to respond.  After all, he already knew the answer.<br/>(Episode tag for 2.06 Through a Glass Darkly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even As Also I Am Known

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying around with Musketeers fic for a while now, so I thought it was time to actually post some of it. Episode tags may not be the most original contribution to the fandom, but it's as good a place to start as any, right?

His head was pounding and he couldn’t escape the vague feeling of lightness floating about him as his vision blurred, swimming in and out of focus. He’d ceased to actively think about the various muscles that protested his movements, each step accompanied by various aches and pains. His right leg was the worst of it. He had to pay deliberate attention to each step to prevent himself from limping, but the stiffness of his movements only exacerbated the ache in his back, making him feel as if he had aged at least twenty years.

In short, he did not feel well.

Of course, he wouldn’t say as much. Not after everything that had happened. In truth, he’d barely noticed most of the pains until after the dust had settled. But once he found himself outside the observatory, striding up the hill with as much strength as he could muster, the adrenalin quickly drained away and his body suddenly reminded him that this day had been altogether too trying.

He distracted himself with greeting the queen and ensuring her safety, with grinning in delight at d’Artagnan and Constance, with pondering exactly how Milady had arrived here at Athos’s side.

But as they returned to the horses, preparing to depart, Aramis found himself overcome with a wave of dizziness. Resting one hand against his horse’s flank, he closed his eyes and waited for the moment to pass.

“As it appears I was misinformed of your untimely demise, I shall look forward to the tale of your latest daring escape. You seem to be making a habit of it.” The unexpected sound of Athos’s voice at his shoulder was almost enough to make him jump, if it weren’t for the fact that such a movement would only increase the pounding behind his eyes.

From somewhere nearby, Porthos chuckled with just a hint of brittleness. “Eh, you know our Aramis. He’s good with windows. Must be all that practice with creative exits.”

“Indeed,” Athos replied, a faint smile detectable in his tone, though only to those who knew him well.

“I told you it was a useful skill,” Aramis said without opening his eyes. He’d meant his tone to be light, but it came out weaker than intended. With any luck, his teasing words would be enough to hide the strained quality of his voice as he fought back a touch of nausea.

“Aramis,” Athos said softly. Evidently Aramis had run out of luck for the day.

He shook his head quickly, regretting the motion as he felt the world tip precariously. “A moment, my friend. I just need a moment.”

Aramis felt a hand land gently on his shoulder as he drew a few deep breaths, focusing on the feel of air in his lungs as he brought his body back under control.

Porthos blew out a long breath, and Aramis could hear the mingled frustration and relief it contained. “Bloody third story window,” he muttered darkly from off to Aramis’s left.

“So she didn’t lie about that bit?” Athos asked.

“What’d she say?”

“Just that Marmion killed him, pushed him out a window.”

Their voices drifted over Aramis as he focused on breathing steadily, letting the nausea and the pounding in his head fade into the background. Somehow he found it comforting to listen to those two familiar voices as Athos and Porthos calmly discussed him as though he wasn’t even present.

“Well, half true then, and to be fair, she couldn’t have known he’d survive. Still, you’re gonna have to explain how she came to be helping us.”

“It wasn’t as if we had much choice in the matter. She arrived at the garrison saying Aramis was dead and the king was captured. What else could be done?”

“Not dead,” Aramis muttered. The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently.

“Yeah, and how is that, anyway?” Porthos asked. “Not that I doubted, mind you, but that height…”

“Awning. It broke my fall. Mostly.”

Aramis finally opened his eyes, blinking blearily as he looked up to see Athos at his side. It was his hand that held him by the shoulder, Porthos hovering beside Athos, just an arm’s length away.

He glanced behind them to see the king’s entourage slowly moving off, flanked by Tréville and the other musketeers. D’Artagnan followed slightly behind, casting one glance back at the three of them before resuming his place in the convoy, riding as near to Constance as he was able. Aramis couldn’t help but smile at them. At least something had come of this day.

“Are you able to ride?”

Aramis scoffed. “Athos, please. It’s nothing. I’m perfectly fit.”

He ignored the way Porthos rolled his eyes in exasperation. But he said nothing, merely holding out a water skin for Aramis, who took it gratefully. When he’d taken a long drink and a few more deep breaths, Aramis ignored the multiple offers of assistance and hauled himself onto his horse through sheer force of will, not quite suppressing a wince as he settled into the saddle.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look before mounting their own horses. Porthos groaned slightly at the motion and rolled his shoulder. “That’s gonna hurt in the morning.”

“What?” Aramis asked.

“Nah, it’s nothing.”

Athos snorted. “Must the two of you compete for who will deny their injuries the longest?” he asked drily. He didn’t wait for them to respond. After all, he already knew the answer. With a click of his tongue, he spurred his horse, setting off after the convoy with Aramis and Porthos following close behind.

“What injuries?” Aramis demanded. “Porthos?”

He sighed again. “Rochefort yanked my shoulder out of joint.”

“He did… wait, what?”

“Long story. Marmion chained us up in the basement.”

“Why?”

“Well, he was insane, wasn’t he?” Porthos said. Aramis merely glared. Or at least he tried to. He feared it might have come across as a pained grimace. “I guess I got a bit mouthy after he… well, after your dramatic exit. An’ Rochefort kept threatening him. So he got tired of the both of us, an’ chained us up in the basement.”

“And your shoulder –”

“Rochefort set it.”

Aramis felt his jaw drop. “That’s –”

“True. I heard it,” Athos added. “Still, I think we’ll have a physician examine it when we return. I’m sure the swelling will need looking after.”

Porthos grumbled. “It’s not…” he stopped abruptly at a sharp look from Athos. “…okay, yeah. Probably a good idea.”

Aramis rolled his eyes, knowing full well that Porthos’s acquiescence had little to do with his own injury. “The two of you are painfully transparent, at times.”

“Perhaps you should consider that the next time you fall out a window.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

They spoke little on the return trip, catching up with the others and joining the king’s escort to the palace. By the time the king and queen were safely returned, and the musketeers free to return to the garrison, Aramis was tired and sore and simply ready to end this day with a glass of wine and a comfortable bed.

But it wouldn’t do to admit as much. Instead he kept up the pretense as long as possible, riding silently back to the garrison, and finally sliding off his horse with somewhat less grace than usual before handing the reins to the stable boy.

“All right?” Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded. “Fine. Just fine. You?”

“Never better.”

Athos rolled his eyes. “Now about that physician…”

But before he could finish, he was interrupted by Tréville. They spent several moments conferring between the two of them, ordering several more musketeers to the palace to double the guard and ease the minds of the king and queen after their harrowing day. D’Artagnan had accompanied Constance, wanting to ensure that she was safely settled in back at the palace. So Athos ordered another musketeer to replace d’Artagnan on guard duty and send him back to the garrison.

As they arranged matters, Aramis limped over to the table, easing himself onto the bench.

“Still sayin’ you’re all right then?”

Aramis glared. “Stop worrying and let me sit a moment.”

There was enough genuine irritation in his voice to quiet Porthos, who stood nearby, staring at him silently. Aramis looked away, too tired to deal with his friend’s concern. He knew Porthos meant well, but his head was still pounding and he craved some peaceful silence.

Porthos, of course, would not oblige for long.

“I don’t know about you,” Porthos said, “but I’m starving.”

Aramis huffed in amusement, unable to maintain his irritation in the face of Porthos’s good humor.

“Why does that not surprise me,” he said drily, more statement than question.

The silence barely settled between them before Porthos spoke again. “I knew you weren’t dead.”

“Then you knew more than I did, because for a moment I wasn’t so sure.”

Porthos grinned. “Well, it’s a good thing I know you better than that, ‘cause I knew it would take more than some crazed maniac and a window to stop you.”

Aramis smiled back. “Well, perhaps God wasn’t finished with me yet.”

Apparently released from his planning with Tréville, Athos rejoined them. He eyed them both speculatively, as if a single glance told him all he needed to know, before resorting to more orders.

“That’s settled now, so upstairs with you both.”

“I was just about to find some super,” Porthos complained.

“I’ll have food brought up. Now, go. Both of you. I’ll send for a physician once you’re both settled.”

“Bossy, bossy,” Aramis muttered, pushing himself to his feet as best he could. He grimaced as the muscles in his right leg seized, causing him to stumble. Athos grabbed him by the arm to steady him, leading him towards the stairs as swiftly as Aramis could manage.

It took longer than Aramis would have expected to negotiate the stairs and make their way to his quarters. They stumbled along, discarding weapons, hats, and various accoutrements onto the table by the door. Aramis sunk down on the edge of his bed and leaned down to pull off his boots. Eventually they settled in, Porthos sitting in a chair near the end of the bed while Athos grabbed the second chair from the other side of the room. Aramis was simply relieved to be sitting. He stretched out his leg and rubbed one hand over his thigh and knee, easing the soreness out of abused muscles.

Athos left briefly to order some food before returning with a basin of water and some clean cloths and bandages.

Aramis looked at him, then over to Porthos.

“You’d better help him out of his uniform so we can see how much damage Rochefort did to that shoulder.”

“I’m fine, you idiot. You’re the one who fell three stories.”

“Two stories, and as long as I can sit here and rest, I’ll be perfectly fine.”

Athos let out a huff of displeasure, but moved to Porthos to assist with removing his doublet. “Don’t make me regret rescuing the two of you.”

“Excuse me, I didn’t need any rescuing,” Porthos said.

“Nor I,” Aramis said. “I want it on record that I was doing the rescuing. I didn’t climb back up to a third floor window for nothing.”

“You did what, now?” Porthos was about to object further, but he winced as Athos slid his shirt over his shoulder, exposing the full extent of the damage.

As Athos carefully prodded at Porthos’s shoulder, Aramis leaned forward to get a better look. “That could be worse, actually. Wrap it in some wet cloths to bring the swelling down, but it should heal in a few days.”

“That your professional, opinion?” Porthos asked.

Aramis merely glared. Athos moved the chair and set the basin of water on it, within easy reach, handing Porthos several of the cloth bandages and then leaving him to tend to himself while Athos moved back to Aramis.

“Now. Which of the various injuries that you deny having should I tend to first?”

Aramis’s glare seemed to be losing its power based on Porthos’s light chuckle and the distinctly unimpressed look Athos was currently directing at him. Eventually, Aramis had no choice but to relent.

“It’s just my head and my leg. Everything else is immaterial – just scrapes and bruises.”

Athos looked over the various cuts adorning Aramis’s face and hands, holding one hand up for Aramis to inspect. “Still, it’d be best to ensure there’s no glass stuck in any of these.” Aramis nodded reluctantly. Athos handed him a damp cloth, with which he began to clean the cuts on his hands as Athos sat beside him to examine his head. Eventually, Aramis had to lean forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as Athos carefully cleaned away dried blood and picked shards of broken glass from his hair.

The sound of the door opening caused Aramis to look up, which proved to be a mistake as it also caused Athos to press against one of the deeper scrapes on the back of his head. Aramis hissed in pain as Athos pulled his hand back, both looking towards the door.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan said gently. He was carrying a tray with food. “I just returned and heard you were asking for this.” He settled the tray on the table nearby.

“Is everyone all right at the palace?” Aramis asked.

“Yes, everything’s fine. The king and queen are well looked after. Actually the queen sent someone with me.”

From behind d’Artagnan, a man stepped into view.

“Doctor Lemay,” Aramis greeted him. “Shouldn’t you be at the palace, looking after the queen?”

“I can assure you, monsieur, that the queen is quite well. I have tended to her and the Dauphin, as well as Madam Bonacieux and the others. They are all quite well and resting in comfort. It was suggested that I could be of more use here.”

Aramis did not miss the way Athos stiffened, or the slightly too harsh grip of his hand as it clenched the cloth stained with Aramis’s blood. Athos had already made it quite clear that he had noticed the attention Aramis had paid to the queen. Although Lemay’s presence could be entirely innocent, it seemed that Athos would not choose to see things that way.

“I’m sorry that you have had a wasted trip, but as you can see, your services are not required,” Aramis said, putting on his best charming grin to soften his words.

Lemay looked skeptical, but that was nothing compared to the way Athos grabbed Aramis by the shoulder and poked viciously at his scalp with his other hand. Aramis could not suppress the gasp of pain as he winced, pulling away and glaring at Athos.

“On the contrary, Doctor Lemay,” Athos said smoothly, “we would be most grateful for your assistance. It would save me from having to stitch up this mess here.”

Aramis jerked away, pointing at Athos accusingly. “You are not stitching up anything, least of all my head. Go see to Porthos, wrap his shoulder like I told you to earlier.”

Athos smirked in victory, but did as he was told.

Lemay stood in the center of the room, looking slightly hesitant before d’Artangan ushered him towards Aramis, whispering “he doesn’t bite,” as Aramis rolled his eyes.

“You have my apologies, doctor. But as I have told them, I will be fine.”

Lemay nodded, but his eyes were already on the blood-stained cloth Athos had left behind. “I am sure that is true, monsieur, but it is best that I make sure of it.” Picking up the cloth, he resumed cleaning the lacerations at the back of Aramis’s head, parting his hair to take a closer look. He summoned d’Artagnan to bring him his supplies and another basin of water, and then set to work.

In the end, Lemay added only a few stitches to a particularly nasty cut that stretched from behind Aramis’s ear up several inches through his scalp. It was his leg that proved the bigger concern. With help from d’Artagnan, Aramis removed his breeches and presented his leg for Lemay’s inspection. If the bruised and swollen knee was not a concern, then the long gash on the back of his thigh was. And this was when Aramis became grateful for Lemay’s stiches. They were certainly neater than those Athos would have produced. Aramis ended up lying flat on his stomach to allow Lemay to stitch it properly.

“Is that from the glass?” d’Artagnan asked. Porthos gazed on from a distance as Athos removed the wet rags he had finished with.

“Perhaps,” Lemay said. He pulled a splinter of wood from the edge of the wound and held it up for their inspection. “But I suspect it was more from the wooden frame.”

Aramis groaned. “It shattered quite spectacularly.”

“We know,” Porthos growled. “We saw.”

Aramis shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“It’s a’ right. Not your fault. Just don’t do it again.”

Athos and d’Artagnan brought the food and began splitting it amongst them, serving Porthos a generous portion of stew.

They all sat in silence, and they watched as Lemay cleaned, stitched, and wrapped the wound on Aramis’s leg, binding the knee as well for good measure. When he’d finished, Aramis was silent.

Athos filled another bowl of stew and offered it to Aramis, but he waved it away.

“You should eat,” Porthos insisted.

“No.”

Lemay cleared away his supplies and took a pair of tweezers and a cloth, moving to inspect the stitched wound on Aramis’s head. “Can your stomach manage food?” Lemay asked, using the tweezers to remove the last remaining shards of glass from his patient’s hair.

“I don’t think so,” Aramis said softly. “Not yet, anyway.”

Aramis saw d’Artagnan and Porthos exchange worried glances. Lemay must have seen it as well. “That’s not uncommon with head wounds, as I’m sure you’re aware. But there doesn’t seem to be any serious injury, so it should pass soon. Sleep for a while if you can. When you wake, if the symptoms have yet to fade, call for me and I will prescribe a tonic that should help.”

Aramis barely nodded. He thought he heard Lemay speaking to the others, but now that he was lying down, he found he lacked the energy to sit up and join them. It was only when he heard the door close softly that he realized Lemay had gone.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured, nudging him gently. Aramis opened his eyes, wondering when they had drifted closed. “Scoot over.”

Aramis frowned, but did as he was told. When he’d moved himself closer to the wall, Porthos lay down beside him along the edge of the bed. Aramis raised one eyebrow in question.

“Thought I’d lie down, rest my shoulder a while. That okay with you?”

Aramis merely nodded. He saw Athos and d’Artagnan, settled in at the table, picking through the rest of their supper as Athos dealt a hand of cards.

“You all staying, then?”

“You really have to ask?” d’Artagnan said.

“I suppose not. I know you all too well by now to think you’d actually leave for the night,” Aramis muttered, resettling into his new position as he made himself comfortable.

He felt the low chuckle from Porthos at his side. “Just as we know you.” Aramis nodded slightly, resting his head against Porthos’s uninjured shoulder and closing his eyes. It was true. Aramis would never have said it, but he was grateful for the company. Luckily for him, his friends knew whether he said it or not.

As he felt his body relax fully for the first time all day, Aramis listened to the quiet voices from the table, occasionally echoed by a low rumble from Porthos, and he let his friends’ familiar presence drift over him as he felt sleep claim him.


End file.
